


And Another Thing...

by thehotzone



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: But Only To Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fix-It of Sorts, Gratuitous References to Old Sci-Fi Novels, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-it Notes, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:55:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23259502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehotzone/pseuds/thehotzone
Summary: [Post-Civil War]Someone in the Compound has memory problems. Little things like how to live with themselves, which date it is, what to put in their coffee. Stuff like that.Tony Stark has other problems. Little things like living with the guy who killed his parents, threats from space, neon-green sticky notes.Stuff like that.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Tony Stark
Comments: 28
Kudos: 263





	And Another Thing...

As all things tend to do, it starts with a neon-green sticky note.

It lay in the middle of the floor, sticky-side up, and thus covered in a collage of hair, crumbs, and speckles of grime. The color was so garish, so viciously vivid, that it glowed in the dark, and Tony's eyes locked onto it when he stepped into the common room.

"That," Tony said to no one in particular, "is disgusting."

No one in particular replied. This was because the common room was empty.

His knees popped as he bent to pick up the note. _You like three sugars in your coffee_ , it read, written in forward-leaning, ink-smeared scrawl, _no milk_.

Tony cocked his head. Bruce preferred tea. Strange never hand-wrote anything. Rhodey drank coffee the same way Tony took his: black enough to curl his toes, hot enough to scorch his tongue. 

Which meant the note belonged to one of the ex-ex-Avengers. They had arrived at the Compound six months ago, pardoned and tired of life on the run, and of life in general. If one of them wanted to write reminders on ugly sticky notes, they were more than free to do so.

It didn’t seem too terribly important, so Tony placed the note on the counter, refilled his mug, and walked out of the common room.

He was mistaken, of course. As mistaken as one would be if they insisted six times nine made forty-two, unless one happened to be using a base thirteen system, which this particular universe does not. 

So, Tony was mistaken. The notes were, in fact, very, _very_ important.

*******

He was scraping the remains of a failed omelette into the garbage when he saw the next note. The omelette (cheesy, black pepper-y, and also scorched beyond repair), was a classic case of, oh, fuck, the heat isn’t supposed to go _that_ high, and now the grit on the bottom of the pan refused to unstick. This was not a good thing. Bruce would have _words_ if Tony left another dish "soaking" in the sink.

The note, stuck to the inside of the trash can, was food-flecked and grease-stained. It was also the most appalling shade of hot pink Tony had ever seen. _You’re on page 214_ , it read. There were three more sticky notes at the bottom of the trash can. _214, 214, 214_.

“Congrats on making it past 214?” Tony said to himself, arching a brow. He then dropped the entire pan into the garbage and spun on his heel. Omelette 2.0. More cheese. More nonstick spray.

He had a spatula in his left hand, two eggs in his right, when the sound of voices came from the hall. He whipped around to stare at the doorway. Footsteps approaching. Multiple pairs, leisurely pace. Nat. Sam. Steve.

He was aware, then, of how his chest seemed to constrict. Of how it seemed as if he was breathing through a straw, an infinitely, terribly small pinprick of a hole, and no matter how fast he sucked in air, lungs aching, chest heaving, it would never be enough.

 _Enough_. 

Tony backed out of the room, fist clenched to his chest. He heard a puzzled “Who left the eggs out?” before he stepped aboard an elevator and punched in his lab access code. 

_This_ , Tony told himself as the doors slid shut, _is not hiding_. His reflection in the chrome walls of the elevator nodded.

Another access code, two sets of doors, and a retina scan, and then he was surrounded by sweeping sheets of glass and blue-lit holoscreens. "FRI," Tony said, "Bear Snores On Protocol."

"Activated."

"Thanks." Tony let out a breath as the glass walls turned opaque. He reached up to massage his chest, and realized there were two eggs clutched in his right hand.

A hot plate worked well enough for scrambling eggs. They tasted salty, which he tried not to think about. He tried not to think about too many things lately: salty scrambled eggs, the grey inching across his temples, Steve’s attempts at crossing the bridge he'd burnt half a year ago.

A week later, Tony cooked an omelette in the common room. It was two in the morning—so maybe he _was_ hiding, sue him, he’s got the money—and it was cheesy and black pepper-y and not salty.

He also found another note. Hot pink. Black ink. Page 214. This one, too, was in the garbage.

*******

On the gravel path that wound through the flower beds, ink runny from early-morning dew. _Gardening tools are in the shed behind the gym_ s.

Under the treadmill in the gym, crumpled and torn. _You like incline four best_.

Again on the common room floor, covered in dust-brown footprints. _You’re safe here_.

*******

It was four in the morning, and the skin under Tony’s eyes felt too thin. He was close, he was _thisclose_ , to solving the equations Strange gave him. To reconciling what the Sorcerer Supreme called _ward magicks_ with the particle masher of the reactor. If successful, the activation energy needed to achieve fusion would be lower, increasing net energy gain. He just needed to track how the ward energy moved through a system, then find a way to control the speed of the catalyst so it wouldn’t overwhelm the suit. 

But first, granola bars. The oat kind, with nuts. There was a box of them in the common room pantry. 

Halfway to said pantry, a sticky note on the table caught his eye. It was neon orange, and it read _You’re on page 214._

Next to the note was a book. The book was the type of book with well-thumbed, yellow-cream pages, the type of book that looked as though it had lived longer than its reader had, as most stories tend to do, or will do. Tony flipped up the cover to read the title, and a grin tugged at his lips. _Slaughterhouse-Five_. 

"Vonnegut. Excellent taste," he quipped, then headed to the pantry.

On his way out of the common room, Tony didn’t bother to resist his urge to pick up the pen. He wrote: _Sci-fi fan, I see. Try Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy._

This was yet another mistake.

*******

It happened on a Thursday, as things like this tend to do. 

Tony never could get the hang of Thursdays, and when he stepped off the elevator, something crumpled underfoot. He glanced down. There was a brilliant purple sticky note stuck to the sole of his shoe. He peeled it off. _You’re on page 221_.

“Mazel tov,” he quipped, then slipped the note into his pocket and continued on his way. His past few meals had consisted of granola bars and take-out, so he was headed to the communal kitchen, which was stocked with food for normal, well-adjusted people. When he arrived, Clint was perched on the kitchen counter and Wanda was at the stove, so forget that bit about normal, well-adjusted people.

Clint lept down from the counter and stepped in front of Wanda. "What’s with the face, Stark." His voice was like flint: sharp, and looking to spark a fight.

Tony strode over to the table. “Clint. Maximoff.” He plucked an apple from the fruit bowl and tossed it from hand to hand. “Can we not do this? I've got stuff to do, people to see, and I don't have time for a temper tantrum."

"Stuff to do. More important than Avengers business?"

"Movie nights aren't Avengers business, so, yeah, I'd say I have better things to do." Tony paused. "Better people to see."

“You are keeping distance,” Wanda announced from the stove, urging the heat higher with a flick of her wrist. Flames licked the sides of a simmering pot. “When you betray the team like you betrayed Steve in Siberia, it will be easier for you."

"Ask Cap about the whole lies and betrayal thing, he'll have a lot to say, but me?” Tony shot Clint a wry smile. “Not really my style. If I'm going to stab someone, they'll see it coming.”

Clint grunted. “Then we'll see it coming. I dunno what you're doing in that lab, but if it's another Ultron, don't expect to get off easy this time."

"Ultron? Interesting you bring that up, because—” Tony flicked his eyes to Wanda. "Let's just say that I wasn't the one who got off easy."

Wanda whipped around, smoke-like tendrils of crimson rising from her eyes. " _You_."

"Me," Tony agreed evenly. “Anyways, I can see I’ve overstayed my welcome in my own kitchen, so,” He slipped the sticky note from his pocket and slapped it onto the counter, “I’ll take my leave.”

“What the hell is wrong with you.” Clint lunged across the counter and snatched up the note. “Even SHIELD didn’t mark you down as this much of an ass.” With a look of disgust, he flung the note into the garbage.

Tony flicked his eyes to the garbage, then to the look on Clint’s face. “I’m sorry, what?”

"Don't play dumb, Stark. It’s just like you to allow fucked up coping mechanisms. What, Siberia wasn’t enough?”

“Hang on, a _coping_ _mechanism_? Are we talking about sticky notes? For who? For whom? Is it who or whom, I can’t rem—”

“Tony.”

There were a handful of people living in the Compound who still called him Tony. Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and biceps straining against a too-tight t-shirt, was one of them, and he had the look of a man who held the sky on his shoulders.

“Captain,” Tony said. “Mind telling me what this is about.”

Steve pushed off the doorframe with a sigh. “Look," he said in what he must have assumed was a diplomatic tone, "we’ve let you keep to yourself. But I draw the line at harassment.”

“ _Whom_ exactly am I harassing."

“Drop the act, Tony. He needs to learn how to cope by himself. The notes, they don’t help. You’re setting him back. I just…” Steve ran a hand through his hair. “I want us to be a team again. We can’t do this when you hold this, this grudge.” Steve stepped forward, and Tony stepped back into the counter.

Steve stopped. His eyes flicked to Tony’s chest, then to his face. “It’s been six months,” he said softly. “I won’t, I’m not going to—”

"I’m leaving.” Tony stepped past Steve and headed toward the doorway. “I’m leaving, I’m going to my lab, and you’re not going to follow me. You’re going to stay here and cook a fucking omelette without looking over your shoulder, and you’re going to be fine about it. Just don’t— _don’t_ —follow me.” 

With heat licking at his insides, Tony strode from the room. He didn’t see the figure lurking in the hall until he smacked into it. He stepped back, looked up, and met the slate-grey eyes of Bucky Barnes.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” said Bucky, who looked as though he had been eavesdropping.

“Okay,” said Tony, who really didn’t care.

“Sorry.”

Tony brushed past Bucky and walked away. 

*******

_You’re on page 221._

_You’re on page 221._

_You’re on page 221._

_You’re on page 221._

_You’re on page 221._

_You’re on page 221._

_You’re on page 221._

*******

Weekly movie nights. Steve had been back at the Compound for a month when he’d sent out the memo. As in, he’d literally sent out a memo. The nights were supposedly filled with hours of camaraderie and snacks, meant to facilitate team building. At least, that’s what the memo said. Tony wouldn’t know.

On this particular night, Tony headed to the gym. Memories ricocheted within his skull like rubber bouncy balls, and running helped, sometimes.

What didn’t help was stepping off the elevator to see Bucky sitting criss-cross applesauce in the hallway, back to the wall, nose buried in a book. Tony forgot to bring along his self-preservation instincts to the gym, so he walked over to Bucky and nudged his calf with his toe. “Hey. We have a common room for this sort of thing.”

Bucky grunted. Which could mean a number of things, such as _I know we have a common room_ , or _I like the floor better_ , or _If you don’t step away from me right now, I will tear out your intestines through your mouth and proceed to strangle you with them_.

“I like the floor better,” Bucky said.

“Good,” Tony said. "I like my intestines where they are.”

“What.”

“Did I say that out loud? I mean.” He cleared his throat. “Anyways, you aren’t at movie night because...?"

“You aren’t.”

“I’m—” _Hiding_ , a voice said in his head. It sounded like Pepper. “—busy. Business trip tomorrow. Gym tonight. So." Tony gestured to the hallway, but before he could step away, Bucky spoke. 

"Stark."

"What.”

"I'm s—”

"Shut up."

Bucky frowned. "I'm so—”

"Shut _up_." 

A dark look flashed across Bucky’s face. "What's your problem, Stark?” He heaved himself from the ground and stalked forward. “Why are you so determined to let everyone else walk all over you?"

“My problem, _Barnes_ , is that I don’t want to hear it. Especially from you.”

“I want to say it.”

“I want you to go to hell.”

“Been there.”

“Is your mess of a brain still frozen?” Tony stepped closer until he was chest-to-chest with Bucky, enunciating each word with the fall of his heel: “ _I don’t want to be a part of your twelve step program._ ”

“It’s nine steps.”

Tony’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. A laugh escaped his mouth, then another, until his shoulders were shaking and Bucky was looking at him like he’d lost it. “Alright, Tastee-Freez." He straightened. "You can say one thing.”

Bucky opened his mouth. Closed it. His jaw worked, then he dropped his gaze. "Back in the common room. Steve didn’t tell them about... about.”

The levity dropped from Tony’s face. “About,” he parroted, and Bucky flinched. “So—and feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, Barnes, because I know you will—Wanda and Clint and the rest of them, they think I attacked you and Steve for no reason?”

“Steve didn't think it was his thing to tell.”

“Well, soldier, here’s the thing: It was.”

Bucky said nothing, so Tony clapped his hands and pulled back. “Good talk. Let’s never do it again. I’d say see you around, but I won’t. Business trip. Capiche?”

“Capiche."

“It's capache,” Tony said, then spun on his heel and strode down the hall.

*******

“I’m—Christ, Pepper, stop yelling—I’m coming.” Tony shoved his phone between his ear and shoulder, hoisted a trio of suitcases from the ground, and kicked the door open. “I just said I was coming, I’ve got—look, I’m walking to the landing pad as we speak, don’t have an aneurysm, or an ulcer, or whatever it is I give you these days.”

“Grey hairs, Tony! You give me grey hairs because you were supposed to leave _eight minutes ago_!”

“Grey hair, hm, I’ll set you up with an appointment with Kurt. He’s the best, you know, the things he can do with dye are magnificent. You should see my pubes—”

“ _What_ is _wrong_ with you! I don’t need to hear about your pubes! I don’t need to hear about Kurt! Board the jet _. Now._ ”

“I,” said Tony, as he waltzed past the common room, “am boarding the jet as we speak.”

“Are you? My grey hairs say otherwise.”

“Is that your Pepper tingle? Look, I’m—” He paused.

“Tony? _Tony_?”

Tony turned back to the commons. “I’ll see you soon, Pep, promise.” He ended the call, set down his briefcases, and crept along the wall until he reached the doorway. Tense voices spilled into the hall:

“—tell us?”

“I wanted to, Clint, I would never lie to the team unless I thought I had to. Keeping this from you wasn’t okay. I admit that.”

Tony peered around the frame, brows furrowed.

Most of the Rogues were spread across the room. Sam in the kitchen, Natasha near the corner, Bucky lurking in the other entrance. Clint stood in the middle of the room. The tendons in his neck strained against his skin. He was jabbing a finger at Steve, voice low as it was loud.

“No, what’s ‘not okay’ is that I left my fuckin’ wife and kids for you, and you just shit over everything I did like it was _nothing_. That’s fucked, Cap, that’s ‘ _not okay_.’”

Steve raised his palms. “I never wanted anyone to get hurt.”

“Well,” Clint let out an ugly laugh and spread his arms, “I’m hurtin’ Cap, and you owe us a goddamn explanation. I want to know what else he’s done. Who else has he killed?”

“Clint, please. You knew about his past when I asked. You said, you knew what it was like to lose control of yourself, you said what happened didn't make a difference.”

Wanda stepped up next to Clint. “This _is_ different." She curled her arms around herself. “We followed you because we trusted. I came here because I had trust in you, and you asked.”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose and looked away. “I was going to tell you. I was waiting for things to cool down.”

“Six months, man,” Sam said from the kitchen. He shook his head. “We thought… You know what anger does to someone. I’ve seen you go to town on a punching bag when shit gets bad.”

“Don’t make this about Stark,” Clint snapped. “This was a long time coming. The Accords’d already made things go to shit before Siberia.”

“Then why—”

“Retirement, Cap. You made it a family thing. Thought I was following someone I believed in.”

“Bucky—”

Clint’s nostrils flared. “This isn’t about him.”

Tony glanced at Bucky, who immediately met Tony’s gaze. His face turned the color of bleached bones. He mouthed something, but Tony looked away as Natasha as she slid across the room toward Clint. 

She put a hand on his shoulder. Clint threw it off. “Did _you_ know?” he demanded, twisting around to face her.

Natasha’s eyes flitted to the doorframe. “I knew a lot. It wasn’t for me to tell.”

“Jesus. I'm leaving. Don’t follow me.”

Steve reached out. “Clint—”

“Drop it.” 

Tony jumped aside as Clint barreled out of the room. The archer halted, chest heaving. They stared at each other until Tony spoke. “So,” Tony said. “You thought that was just something I’d do? Written in the stars? It was always him or me, Accords or not?”

Clint pushed past Tony and stalked down the hall. “It should have been no one,” he tossed over his shoulder.

“Couldn’t’ve said it better myself.” Tony turned back to the commons. He locked eyes with Bucky, and gave him a single, slow nod.

Steve stepped into Tony’s line of sight. “Did you do this?” he demanded, his eyes rimmed with red, jaw clenched.

“Nope,” said Tony, still looking at Bucky, “you did.”

*******

He touched down in Miami half an hour late. As soon as his Gucci loafers kissed asphalt, Hurricane Pepper hit. Turned out, she had an ulterior motive for bringing him down to Florida. She had taken it upon herself to address _the hiding issue_. Or, as Pepper put it: 

“You creep around your own building like you're a trespasser, and I don't see why you can't recognize that that's a problem."

“Look, Pep,” Tony sighed. He clasped his hands behind his back and walked over to the window. He pretended to consider the skyline, which was heavy with grey clouds. “It doesn’t matter to me, okay? Okay. We’re done. I don’t want you worrying about this.”

In her reflection within the glass, Tony saw Pepper cross her arms. “No, it’s not okay, and I’m not worried.” She bit her lip. 

“You’re worrying. I can see it. You bite your lip when you’re worried. You’re doing it right now. Stop it.”

“Tony.”

“Can we finish what I came here for?” He wandered over to her desk and rummaged through her papers. “You want my signature, I’ll sign whatever you want me to sign."

“Those aren’t for you, and we are _not_ done talking about this."

“Why not? My company, my papers, I’ll sign what I damn well please.” He bit off the cap to a pen and scrawled his signature across the first line he saw.

“Tony!”

“I’m doing my job, Pep, that’s what I’m good for, right?”

A frustrated sound escaped her teeth. “Those were for the merger! _"_

“ _My_ company, _my_ merger.”

“No one’s merger if these contracts aren’t reprin—”

“Then reprint them, and go ahead and tell everyone _I_ fucked them up!”

“God, Tony!” Pepper strangled the air. “Why can’t you just—”

“Why can’t I just _what_?”

They stopped and stared at each other, chests heaving.

Pepper’s hands dropped to her side. “Why can't you just be selfish for once."

Tony looked away. “I can’t.”

“I know,” Pepper sighed. She held out her arms, and Tony stepped into them. He was silent until his eyes fell on the mess he’d made on Pepper’s desk. 

“Sorry, Pep.”

“All of these documents are online and organized in their respective files. Hurricane Stark is forgiven.”

Tony snorted. “Alright, let’s do this.” He pulled back and began to rustle through the papers. “Which ones do I sign?”

“That’s something you’re going to have to figure out yourself.”

“That’s fair.” Tony scraped together another stack of papers, then spotted something that had a grin spreading across his face. “Holy fuck, those are perfect, can I have them?”

Pepper followed his gaze to a stack of kitten-shaped sticky notes. “Those? All of them?”

“What am I supposed to do with just one?”

In the end, Pepper gave him half the stack if he promised to start asserting himself. The opportunity to do just that came three days later when Tony flew back to the Compound by jet. "Son of a bitch," he said when he caught sight of the landing pad. "Can't you take a hint?"

Steve was waiting near the Compound's entrance. Even as the jet began its descent, sending ice-cold gusts of wind tearing across the landing pad, he stood his ground.

"Fucking bastard," Tony hissed, unclipping his flight harness. He killed the engine, grabbed a pair of rose-tinted sunglasses, and clenched his emotional asscheeks. Time to assert himself.

The door to the aircraft swung open. Tony squinted against the gale, eyes watering, until he slipped on the sunglasses. He took his sweet time walking across the landing pad. When he was a few meters away from Steve, he stopped. "Captain."

"Tony. I want to talk."

"Then talk." Tony blew past Steve and punched in the entry code for the Compound.

Steve followed him inside. "Thank you. Look, Bucky told the team about—about. Things are tense. It's been quiet on the villain front, but if something like 2012 happens, I don't know if—"

"—if we can fight like we did," Tony finished. He thought of space. Of its infinite pinpricks of light against a blue-black expanse, and of the armada stretching before him. "Yeah." He scrubbed a hand down his face. "Yeah."

"It's just, Bucky—"

"This," Tony said, enunciating his words very, very, clearly, "is not about Barnes."

"Ever since Siberia, Tony, ever since we got back. It's always been about Bucky."

"This isn't about Barnes."

"I need you to understand, the _team_ needs you to understand—"

" _Y_ _ou_ lied to me—"

"We all have that one person we'd—"

"You were my person."

Steve froze. "What?"

"Mother _fuck_." Tony whipped off his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You, Steve. After New York."

Steve’s brows drew together. “Tony, you don’t—”

"Save it," Tony snapped. "You think I don't get it? You think I don't know? My life's been a stream of _one person_ , of losing my _one person_ , and I _get it_. Look, you're Captain America. You're a goddamn national icon, still are, even after all the shit you pulled, and I needed you. At New York, _after_ New York, I needed you. The world needed you. 

“But here’s the thing, Cap. New York never stopped. It never. Fucking. Stopped. If Fury had to choose, if anyone had to choose, if _I_ had to choose who to save, it would be you. It was always you.” He swiped his tongue across his lips. “Because I know what I saw in that wormhole. Something's coming, Cap, something big, and I need you here. To lead. To fight. And maybe we lose, _maybe_ we fail, but you owe me this. You said—if we lose, we lose together. You owe me that."

"I do," Steve said, voice thick. He cleared his throat. "We'll fight. I'll fight, but—"

"No. You ended whatever trust we had off the battlefield a long time ago."

Steve took it with a stoic nod. "I am sorry, Tony. But I won’t stop trying. That’s not who I am."

Tony rested a hand on Steve's shoulder. "I know, Steve.”

*******

That night, Tony woke with a prayer on his lips to Maria. To which one, human or saint, he couldn’t say, though he tipped his chin to the ceiling as wetness trailed from his eyes.

“Boss?”

“Mute." Tony swung his legs over the side of his bed. His face found his hands and stayed there.

It stopped after a while, leaving him with an aching throat and salt-dried cheeks. He glanced at the clock. Four forty-seven. Steve wouldn’t be up for a bit, so he threw a blanket across his shoulders and stood.

His feet whispered against the hardwood floor as he padded toward the commons. It was dark. Quiet, too, save for the sound of electricity humming throughout the Compound. Moonlight spilled through the windows, bathing the halls in a cool, silver glow. 

Once he reached the commons, a colorful array in the kitchen caught his eye. Tony walked over to see several sticky notes spread across the table.

_It’s November 2018._

_You’re safe here._

_You like three sugars in your coffee and no milk._

_You’re_ _still _ _on page 221._

 _Still_ was underlined three times. Tony made a soft sound in the back of his throat. “Be patient,” he told no one, picking up the pen and scratching out _still_. “Take your time. Also, you wouldn’t have to re-write these if you didn’t let people throw them out.”

As he wrote _D_ _on’t throw out!_ on one of the notes, movement to the side caught his eye. Steam. Wafting from a mug.

“You’re safe here,” he quoted from one of the notes, then said it again, just because he could: “You’re safe here.”

*******

_You’re on page 222._

*******

Tony was leaning against the kitchen counter, scarfing down a bowl of Lucky Charms, when Bucky walked into the kitchen. Tony froze with his spoon in the air. Milk dripped down his chin. There might’ve been a marshmallow crumb in his goatee.

Bucky didn’t look his way. He ran his eyes across the common room, fingers twitching by his side.

Tony swiped the back of his sleeve across his chin. “Whatcha looking for, Tastee-Freez?”

“Nothing important," Bucky said without turning, his voice like sandpaper.

Tony set his bowl on the counter. “C’mon, tell me. Might’ve seen it. I owe you one, afterall.”

“You don't owe me one.”

"Tell me what it is, Barnes."

Bucky lowered his gaze to the floor. "Book. Can’t remember where I put it.”

“Happens to the best of us. What’s it called?”

Bucky raked a hand through his hair. He’d pulled it into a bun, and wisps of hair drifted down to brush his unshaven jawline. “I don’t remember,” he finally said. “I usually have—there’s these reminders, but I—”

“At ease, soldier. What do you remember?”

“Someone recommended it to me. Haven’t started it yet, but I left it somewhere, can’t remember where. It’s got, there’s a word in the title, for the people who do this—” Bucky raised his hand.

Tony flinched, but Bucky only stuck his thumb out and jabbed it behind him.

“—when they want a ride, can’t remember what they’re called.”

Tony snapped his fingers. “Hitchhiker. It’s got Hitchhiker in the title, hang on.” He walked over to the sitting room. He fished around in the couch cushions before pulling out a hard-cover book. “This was on the couch earlier, is it this?” He held the book up in the air. _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy._

“Yes, yeah, that’s it.” 

Tony placed it on the table and retreated back to the kitchen. As soon as he was behind the counter, Bucky crossed the room to grab the book. He ran his metal hand over the cover.

Before he could stop himself, Tony said, “So I talked to Steve.”

“I’m s—”

“If you say what I think you’re going to say, I might throw something at you.”

Bucky opened his mouth. Tony plunged his hand into the box of Lucky Charms, pulled out a marshmallow, and flung it at the soldier. It bounced off his metal arm with a soft _ping_. 

“Ow,” Bucky said. 

“Damn right. Does that,” He gestured to the arm, “ever hurt?”

Bucky’s hand came up to cup his metal shoulder. “No.”

“Hm.” Tony picked up his bowl and walked to the doorway. Before he left, he said, “It’s a good book.”

Behind him, Bucky nodded.

*******

_You’re on page 256._

_You’re on page 298._

_You finished Slaughterhouse Five. Page one of Hitchhiker._

*******

A few days later, Tony left the stack of kitten-shaped sticky notes in the commons. _Noticed you were getting low_ , he wrote. _Try these._

Next morning, the stack was gone. _Thank you_ , read the kitten-shaped sticky note in its place.

Later, Tony left yet another note on the common room table. _You’re welcome. Like the new design, I take it?_

And so started the great sticky note dialogue.

***** ******

_Why do I keep finding your notes in the trash? Our convos mean that little to you? :,(_

_I save the replies, just so you know._

_Well I’m flattered. You don’t save your reminders?_

_Sorry. I can’t save everything._

And every time one of the notes read _sorry_ , it was etched into the paper with deep, ink-smeared gouges. 

*******

The Compound housed a myriad of trainees and fully-fledged heroes alike. Several times a week, FRIDAY selected a random group of senior heroes, trainees, or a mezcla of both. The group was then put through a series of trials and tribulations in a multi-storied, state-of-the-art training module/gym that Tony liked to call _The Dome_.

AI-powered? Yes. High-tech? Yes. Dome-shaped? _Yes_.

Of course, there was a downside: weekly, mandated training sessions with the Rogues. The original six, plus Sam Wilson (he's alright) and Bucky Barnes (REDACTED).

Since Tony had talked to Steve, the team was getting better. Less broken. They fought together, they maneuvered together, they checked with each other before making cut-the-wire calls. Off the field, though, tensions remained. The team still couldn’t find that rhythm, that rhyme, that effortless tempo of _I have your back_ and _don’t worry, I’m here_ and _I got you, I got you, I got you_.

So when Tony fell, no one was fast enough to catch him. _Fuck_ , he thought as the boosters stuttered and died, _Strange is going to have an aneurysm if this explodes._

“Hey, fair warning, magic sucks—"

He plummeted. 

His life didn’t flash before his eyes, but light did flash through the eyes of his faceplate as he pin-wheeled from the sky. The Dome wasn’t skyscraper-tall, but it was tall, and the ground was Hulk-proof. The impact slammed his head into the back of his helmet. Copper flooded his mouth, and his vision flared white. 

It wasn’t, however, as bad as it should have been. 

Someone knocked twice on the helmet, sending two sharp, metallic _clang_ s reverberating throughout his skull. 

“Open up, Stark.”

Tony flipped open the faceplate and found himself staring into four sets of slate-grey eyes.

“You good?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah,” said Tony, and then his eyes rolled to the back of his head.

Later on, Tony learned that Bucky carried both him and the suit to the med-bay, bridal style. He didn’t stick around until Tony woke up. No one did. For that, Tony was grateful. 

When he finally left Medical with a bandage wrapped around his head, he found a note stuck to the elevator: _Be more careful!_

Tony barked out a laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

*******

“Yeah, I know it was a miscalculation,” Tony said, stepping into the commons. His hands flew through the air as he typed. A holoscreen bathed his face in a blue-white glow.

FRIDAY responded through his earpiece. “Your calculations are never incorrect, boss."

“Thanks, sweetheart, but the application needs work. Might’ve been a mathematical error. Remember Feynman? Basic physics. We just can't _see_ the blocks because they 'went' somewhere else, and we don't have the language to—fuck me, that’s got to be it, I'm a genius."

“Indubitably.”

“Such sass." Tony waved away the holoscreens with a flick of his wrist. "Open new file. Name: _Feynman Would Lose His Shit_. Save a record of this conversation."

“Done."

"Thanks, FRI."

Once he bade the AI goodnight, Tony slipped the earpiece into his pocket and headed toward the kitchen. "Feynman would totally lose his shit," he said to no one in particular as he perused the fridge's contents. After grabbing a smoothie, he shut the door and turned, quick enough for the light of the fridge to illuminate a dark figure sitting at the table.

“ _Jesus Christ_!”

“No, just me." The figure shifted. Moonlight glinted off a metallic shoulder.

Tony dropped his hand from his chest. "Jesus Christ," he said again. He strode over to the counter and flipped on the lights. “What the hell are you doing in the dark, getting your nightly brooding on?”

Bucky grunted. He was slumped over the table, a pen gripped in his fist like a murder weapon. Hair fell to his shoulders in limp, greasy strands, and he had shadows under his eyes the color of spilled ink.

Tony gestured at the pen with his smoothie. “You planning to stab someone with that?”

“No,” Bucky said, sliding the pen out of sight.

"I see." Tony arched a brow and took a long sip of his smoothie.

The pen reappeared back on the table.

It was silent, then, save for the humming of electricity. Bucky watched Tony watch him, and it wasn’t exactly tense, no, but there was an expectation that the silence should end.

Tony tapped the bandage on his temple. "Good catch today. Thanks."

“Welcome."

“Care to tell me why you’re sitting in the commons in the dark?”

Bucky dropped his gaze. “Memories.”

"So you decided brooding was the best choice."

“Not much else to do.”

“Hitchhiker’s Guide?”

“Forgot what page I’m on.”

“Happens to the best of us." Tony tossed back the last of his smoothie, then threw away the container. "Here’s a tip, Tastee-Freeze. If you can’t remember, try starting over.”

As he left the common room, he heard Bucky say softly: "I’ll keep that in mind.”

*******

A day after the snafu that was training, the Avengers were called out to deal with a threat. The battle, if it could even be called that, was sweat-soaked, and the commlink was flooded with swearing:

"Cover me, dammit!"

"Stark, I need you to communicate."

"Where the hell is my backup? Rogers—"

And when it was over, they all kind of just stood there. Chests heaving, faces streaked with soot. Sirens wailed, various fires crackled, flames clawed higher and higher into the sky. The streets were littered with shards of glass and chunks of concrete, and the stench of burning rubber hung heavy in the air. 

These were the Avengers, and they had imploded, and they were tired.

"Well, that went swell.”

“Shut up, Stark.”

On the flight back to the Compound, Bucky and Steve erupted into a hushed argument. Clint consoled Wanda, and Nat stared straight ahead, lips pursed.

Tony rested his head against the wall of the jet. _We’re tired_ , he thought, _we’re tired_.

*******

"This is delicate work, FRI," Tony grunted, peering into the mirror. With one hand, he peeled the backing from a butterfly bandage. With the other, he pinched a gash on his forehead closed. Slowly, slowly, he laid the bandage across the cut. It made the skin on his forehead feel tight, like he was perpetually wrinkling his brow.

He frowned at his reflection. “Nah, still roguishly handsome."

“Of course, boss."

"That better not be sarcasm.” Tony flicked off the light and padded into his room. He gave his bed a courtesy glance, then headed into the hall.

Bucky was in the kitchen when Tony stepped into the room. He was facing the counter, preparing a mug of tea. His arm, Tony noted, hung limp by his side.

Cocking his head, Tony leaned against the doorframe. He watched Bucky fumble with a container of tea leaves. As he tried to screw on the lid, it toppled off the counter. Bucky should've caught it—the man's reflexes were insane—but the container clattered to the ground, and dark leaves spilled across the floor. Bucky dropped to one knee and clutched his metal shoulder. “Fuck,” he cursed softly.

"So that’s what Rogers was on you about.”

Bucky’s head whipped around. His eyes tracked Tony's movements as Tony strode into the kitchen, scooped up the container of tea leaves, and tossed it from hand to hand. 

"Yeah, you should've caught this." Tony jerked his chin at the arm. "How long's it been hurting?"

“It’s not.”

Tony slammed the container onto the counter. “Bullshit.”

Bucky stood. He stepped forward until he was toe-to-toe with Tony. “We’ve been here before, Stark. What’s your problem.”

“My problem, Barnes, is you.”

"Gonna tell me to go to hell next?"

“After I’ve fixed up your arm, sure."

"It doesn't bother me." When Tony glanced at the tea leaves littering the ground, Bucky added, "that much."

"You're a horrible liar."

"And Stevie was a great one, so look at where we're at now."

Tony opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I," he said at last, "have _never_ heard you speak with this much sass, where has that been hiding? I think I'm going into shock. Did you just make a joke—that was a joke, right? I'd laugh, but I think I'm going into shock."

Bucky blinked. "What."

"Look, Barnes, can we, I dunno, make a truce? We both know Princess Shuri is brilliant. You’ll be doing me a favor."

“Will I.”

“Yeah."

In the end, Bucky followed Tony down to the lab. Right before they stepped inside, Tony shot a grin at Bucky from over his shoulder. “Sci-fi fan, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer; instead, he strode into the lab and clapped his hands twice. “FRIDAY, melt this fanboy’s heart.”

“Of course, boss.”

The room flooded with light, and Bucky sucked in a breath. He did a little half-spin as he tried to take in everything at once. After a solid minute of gaping, he settled on the holoscreens. They hovered like thin, blue ghosts in the air, streaming lists of data and blueprints and three-dimensional diagrams. He reached out, fingertips grazing the surface of a screen. "This," he said, " _this_."

"This," Tony agreed. He steered Bucky to a steel workbench. “Take a seat. I'll be right back."

When Tony returned, toolbox in hand, he found Bucky sitting on the bench, his flesh hand tracing nervous patterns on his jeans.

Tony plopped himself down on the corner of the workbench. "You alright?"

“I'm processing." Bucky waved his hand at the lab. "This is all... it's pretty cool."

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Barnes, now, shirt off.” At Bucky’s hesitance, Tony offered him a wry smile. “I don't know what you've heard, but your virtue is safe with me. Actually, no, I know exactly what you’ve heard, but your virtue, it’s safe.”

Bucky's laugh was muffled as he pulled off his shirt. He balled it into his fist, knuckles white, then leaned back, exhaling slowly.

Tony's hands hovered in the air. “Can I?”

“Yeah.”

Tony placed one hand on Bucky’s inner wrist, and the plates rippled as he tensed.

Tony kept his touch light. He cleared his throat. “Princess Shuri sent me diagrams. I’m going to turn off the nerve reports first. Capiche?”

Bucky nodded.

“Use your words, Tastee-freez."

“Capache.”

"Fantastic." Tony popped open a panel on the outer side of the arm. With a pair of needle-nose pliers and a hooked probe, he rerouted a few electronic circuits. Tension drained from Bucky' form, and Tony glanced up. “Much better, yeah?”

“Yeah."

The problem turned out to be the artificial rotator cuff. Vibranium was nigh indestructible, but the pseudo-tendons had shifted, which made it impossible for Bucky to raise his arm from the shoulder. Painful, sure, but an easy repair.

When Tony paused in his soldering, Bucky spoke. “Thanks."

“No problem, I live for this kind of thing.”

“I know. And thanks for… everything. It's not—you don’t have to do all this. Not for me.”

Tony set down the soldering iron. He pushed his goggles on to his forehead and fixed Barnes with a steel-edged look. “Don't."

“Stark, please. I know what you’re gonna say, but, please. I’m not, looking for forgiveness or anything, I think I’m past that, I just want—”

“You want to be heard,” Tony said, and it hit him like a bolt from Thor.

“Yeah, I... yeah. Steve keeps sayin’ that it wasn’t me. It was, though. Didn’t want to do it, but it was me. And maybe it’s too much to ask from you, but I’m asking anyways.”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. After a beat, he leaned and folded his arms. “Then apologize. I’m listening.”

Bucky squared his shoulders. “I’m sorry. For taking your parents away from you. For—the rest of them. I’m sorry Steve lied to you. I’m sorry that we’re here now, in the Compound, and you can’t go into the damned kitchen without looking over your shoulder, that you're stuck working with people that give you—give you so much pain, and I—”

His shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry.”

Tony scrubbed a hand down his face. He let out a long, slow sigh, then dropped his hand. “I acknowledge your apology, Barnes. Thank you.”

Bucky was silent as Tony finished the arm. When it was done, he flexed, and the silver plates rippled in tandem like liquid mercury. Tony tore his eyes away with a cough. “It, uh, feel alright? Any stiffness? Pain?"

“More than alright.”

"Good, good. By the way, just curious, what step was that?"

"That," said Bucky, standing, "was step four. Maybe five. Got a long way to go."

Tony stood, too. "You'll get there."

"Sometimes I don't know what 'there' is."

"None of us do."

"Fair point." Bucky pulled his shirt over his head. As he tugged it down, a neon-yellow sticky note fluttered to the ground.

Tony caught it. The paper was soft, faded to white in a few places where hands had smoothed it out over and over again. Out of habit, Tony's eyes were drawn to a familiar, black scrawl: _Post-it notes are in your room. Dresser. Second drawer from the top, to the left, underneath the socks._

"I’m sorry," Bucky said in a strangled voice. "I didn’t, look, they’re just reminders, sometimes I forget what’s going on, and I—"

Tony held the note out. "Your handwriting is horrible.”

After a beat of hesitation, Bucky accepted the note. His smile was small, barely an upward curl to his lips, but it was there. “Like yours is any better.”

*******

Tony was closing up shop a few weeks later when an atrocious shade of green caught his eye.

_Finished Hitchhiker’s Guide. Recommend me something else?_

* * *

_“Hey, if you can't remember, don't worry about it. I'm having a few memory problems myself in this place. Little things like how long I've been here, what my purpose in life is, which feet to put my shoes on. Stuff like that._ ”

_—And Another Thing…_

_“And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep.”_

_―Slaughterhouse-Five_

_“The ships hung in the sky in much the same way that bricks don't.”_

_― The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_

* * *

A/N: A lot of eggs were harmed in the making of this fic. 


End file.
